Sister Catalina entered the patio from the garden-close, a yellow hill-rose in her hand to pleasure her afflicted companion with its subtle peppery scent; an act not sanctioned by the drastic rules of the convent. But years upon years had rolled by, bringing a gentle sagging of discipline. Occasionally one of the few priests who still clung to the wrecked cathedrals came to hear confessions of puerile and trifling misdemeanors, and a severer penance than a dozen “Aves” was unknown and unmerited. Sister Eulalia inhaled the rose’s fragrance gratefully. Her blunt, weaving-calloused fingers sought and found the soft petals of the flower with loving touch.
It was thus that the Rev. Dr. Joel McBean saw them. He paused, delighted. What a characteristic picture! How well composed; how symbolical of a decaying faith! His kodak was instantly leveled, and with a snap the sisters were immortalized. For Dr. McBean was known far and wide on the west coast for his lectures on the benighted people of other lands. His present visit to Central America combined his vacation with a search for new material for his winter tour.
The click of the camera caused Eulalia, the sightless, to turn sharply. Catalina, who was slightly deaf, seeing her companion’s movement, looked about and stood still in open-mouthed amazement. Then she made the gesture common to all women in all lands, and emitted the sound that accompanies it when the invading hen must be incited to flight.
“Shoo!” she cried. “Shiss—shiss!” and waved her garden apron at the intruder.
Sister Eulalia grasped the hem of Catalina’s flowing sleeve.
“What is it? Oh, what is it?” she gasped.
“A man! A strange man!” came the answer in a frightened whisper.
The gentleman in question realized that he was distinctly de trop, but he strongly desired to gather more lecture material from this promising source. Setting down the camera, he took out his well-thumbed volume of “Handy Spanish” and sought for a suitable phrase of explanation and introduction. There were headings about “The Hotel,” “The Laundry,” “The Eating and Procuring of Meals,” “At the Railway Station,” “The Diligence,” “The Physician”; but among the thousand useful phrases, not one seemed to offer itself aptly. At last he found the heading he sought: “Cameras—Films—Developing, etc.” “Have you any cyanide?” did not fit. “Have you a darkroom in this hotel?” seemed ambiguous. “Direct me to the photographer” would not do. Ah! Eureka! “May I take your picture?” He bowed politely, approached the now thoroughly frightened nuns, and with carefully spaced utterance made his request. “May I take your picture?” he repeated, with a graceful sweep of his white hand. “Fotografia—cuadro—”
Sister Rose appeared in the doorway, followed by Teresa. His gesture included them also, and the ancient gateway, the columned portico, and the quaint façade of the little chapel.
“Beautiful!” he cried. “Multo bueno! Hermosa, hermosa—muy hermosa!”